Oranges and Lemons
by Mama Joe
Summary: WWI. A young boy joins the US Army, and faces trauma while fighting abroad. Rated M for graphic violence. Oneshot.


Bomb exploded, and people dropped, screaming in exquisite agony, as the Dalton 1st Battalion were hiding out in their trench. The Dalton Battalion were a group of school friends, who had applied to join the Armed Forces of Lady Liberty. When the signed up, they thought that people would sing their praises forever more, but now they were half way across the world, dying in some place called 'The Somme' for people they had never met, and looking at the rate of casualties, never would.

A young member of the Battalion, Kurt Elizabeth Hummel, was singing 'Oranges and Lemons' to keep the morale of the troops up. It would have worked, too, until they received a command from a British man named 'Haig' to go over the top.

The Battalion stood up, not at full height, but bent double, and went to gather their equipment. Kurt left them for a moment, and went to the dugout, to see another young private, Blaine Anderson.

"Blaine?" Kurt whispered, as if he didn't want the rest of the Battalion to know he was there.

"Kurt?" a voice whispered back.

Kurt tiptoed forward, and lightly knocked into a makeshift bed.

"Blaine. I've been commanded to go over the top. I might never see-" he broke off. Tears started to come from his eyes, and land on the other man's bare chest, slowly running into his wounds.

"Kurt, come closer." Blaine replied.

Blaine pushed himself up on his bed, groaning in agony as he did so. He gestured Kurt over to him, and Kurt followed orders. He patted the side of his bed, and he sat down. Blaine placed his hands on Kurt's face, and kissed him.

"Promise me you'll come back?" Blaine pleaded.

"I can't promise anything, mon cher." Kurt replied.

Blaine pulled him back in for another kiss. At that moment, Lieutenant Jeffrey Sterling bolted into the dugout.

"KURT HUMMEL! WHERE THE FUCK-" he screamed, breaking off at the sight of two men kissing.

He took off his hat, and walked over to the couple. He smiled a smile, but this was not an evil smile, nor a warm smile. This was a smile devoid of emotion. He sat down on Blaine's other side, and looked at him.

"Anderson." He said, with the gentleness of a first time mother.

Blaine gulped.

"Sir." Blaine replied, with a salute.

"Do you know what I don't like?" Sterling commanded.

"The Huns, sir?"

"Close, but no."

Sterling began to laugh. Kurt and Blaine followed suit. Sterling suddenly stopped, and the only noise to be heard was the sound of bullets.

"I don't like faggots."

Sterling rammed his hand into Blaine's wound, and grabbed what felt like his intestines. He pulled them out, and wrapped them around Blaine's neck, strangling him with his own entrails.

Blaine gasped for air, and Sterling let him go.

"Sorry sir. I swear on the name of Woodrow Wilson I will stop sodomising." Blaine begged.

"No deal." Sterling replied.

He put his arms around Blaine, and threw him to the floor.

"PRIVATE LONG!" Sterling screamed.

A Wes Long ran into the dugout, carrying his rifle.

He began again. "I have caught these disgusting faggots doing something which angers the Baby Jesus. I want your rifle stock to purge the sin from his brain."

"It would be my pleasure, sir." Wes said to Sterling. He looked at Blaine. "America does not need more of _**your**_ kind."

Blaine began to cry, and began to sing.

"ORANGES AND LEMONS SAY THE BELLS OF SAINT CLEMENTS! YOU OWE ME FIVE FARTHING SAY THE BELLS OF ST MARTINS! WHEN WILL YO-"

Blaine stopped, as the stock of Wes Long's rifle smashed into his skull, cracking it open.

Sterling smiled, and ordered Wes to continue. Wes did so, and attacked Blaine's now exposed skull with all the strength of an enraged Viking bezerker.

Sterling felt excellent. He hadn't had this much fun in years. He turned to Kurt.

"You. Eat his brain."

Kurt nodded, shaking, and picked up his late lover's brain. He brought it to his face, and Wes smashed it into his closed mouth with his rifle stock. Kurt began to cry. Wes picked up Blaine's brain, and pinched Kurt's nostrils. Kurt opened his mouth, and Wes spat in it, and pushed Blaine's brain in after it. He forced Kurt's mouth closed, and pushed his head, so Kurt would chew it.

"Swallow the brain, or I will kill you. I will set fire to you, and I will push you into No Man's Land."

Kurt swallowed, and felt more defiled and disgusting than he ever had before.

"LONG! STAND DOWN!" Sterling commanded.

Wes nodded, saluted, and left the dugout.

Sterling dragged Kurt up.

"GET YOU AND ANDERSON'S RIFLES FAGGOT!" he shouted.

Kurt cried, and obeyed. Sterling threw him out the dugout door, and began to rally his troops.

"MEN OF DALTON! WE HAVE A FAGGOT IN OUR MIDST. I PROPOSE THAT WE MAKE THE BABY JESUS PROUD, AND MAKE THE PANSY DIE FOR HIS SINS!"

The Battalion cheered.

"WESLEY LONG, DAVID MCCORMACK! FETCH ME FIVE NAILS!"

Wes and David nodded, and jogged off to rip nails out of their dugout.

Even though he was facing certain death, Kurt couldn't get his mind off the man he had seen tortured, and he had eaten.

The boys returned, and Sterling took the nails. He placed the rifles in a cross shape, and held a nail where they intersected. He grabbed Kurt's head, and smashed it down on the nail, driving it into his gun.

Kurt mustered the energy to run. He got up, and began to flee. Sterling laughed. He took out his pistol, and aimed it as Kurt's leg. The shot hit perfectly. Kurt collapsed.

"MEN! CARRY THE CROSS!" he shouted, as he began to march towards Kurt.

Arriving at the fleeing boy, he commanded the cross to be dropped, and it was. Kurt was dragged to it by his hair, and thrown on top of it.

His right hand was put on the tube end of the rifle, and a nail was placed on top of it. Thaddeus Mortstein stamped on it, and Kurt screamed in agony.

"Thad... Please..." Kurt begged. Thad kicked him in the face, and walked back.

His left hand was placed in the stock end, and Sterling pulled out a knife. He rammed it through Hummel's hand, and turned back to his troops.

"Men. Do we nail his feet, so the death is less painful, but longer, or keep them loose, so his arms leave their sockets, and he hangs there in agony until he dies?"

"LOOSE!" the Battalion of his once friends cried.

"So be it."

The men lifted up the cross, and Sterling ran into the dugout. He removed what was left of Anderson's body, and rammed it on top of the cross.

"Men. Wait. I have an idea."

Sterling gestured to David, and David handed him his knife. Sterling cut off Blaine's penis, and rammed it into Kurt's mouth. He then took a shoelace of Blaine's, and stabbed holes in Kurt's lips. He tied them up with the shoelace, and cackled the laugh of a manic, daemonic witch.

Sterling pointed forward, and the troops marched, carrying their victims.

The next hour was a haze for Kurt. He remembered death, Sterling falling, and the Germans capturing him and Blaine.

All he saw before he died, was a German carve the word 'Schwuler' into his chest.

After the war finished, nobody knew who he was, and the state decided to bury him and his lover as one, under the name 'The Unknown Soldier'. Kurt's family don't know where he's buried to this day, but all they know, is that millions of people see his grave each year.


End file.
